Forbidden Eons
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: D.I. Fred Thursday has never met a vampire like this before. But he's not surprised of what it's capable of. (Mythical creatures AU. T for blood, murder, and language.)
1. Chapter 1

Fred Thursday smelled vampire as soon as he walked into the station that morning. The odor, sickly sweet, clung to every orifice until even the smells of fifteen other men, coffee, and paperwork faded away completely.

Thursday sniffed as discreetly as possible. He could always blame it on a cold if anyone asked, but he still liked to be careful about it. The scent was strong, and came from a previously unoccupied desk in the back of the room. Thursday made a beeline for it. He had to tell the vampire to get off his territory.

He approached the desk, but stopped in his tracks a few feet away. The vampire looked to be about thirty, with brownish-red hair and bright blue eyes. It struck Thursday that this vampire wasn't bloated, as it would be if it was anywhere close to being well-fed. He bristled. A starving vampire was worse than a full vampire in his opinion.

Thursday stomped forward and stopped before the vampire's desk. The bloodsucker sniffed discretely and glanced up. It looked boyish, like his son Sam, and innocent. It was underfed, though, and pale enough to show that. Light bags, just faint shadows, were under its eyes, but for all it was hungry, its eyes lacked no luster.

"What's your name?" Thursday growled, letting his brown eyes glow for a moment with the fierceness of his true nature.

"Morse, sir." The vampire sat innocently, waiting to be further addressed. Polite beasts they were, which Thursday was thankful for. He wasn't going to invite this bloodeater into _his_ household, that was certain.

"My office. _Now_." Thursday entered his office and the vampire followed him. The DI sat behind his desk and pulled out his pipe. "All right, let's hear the spiel," he said while lighting his pipe.

The vampire, who had stood straight and still, now stood at attention. "Detective Constable Morse, sir. Transfer from the Carshall-Newton police."

Thursday allowed his eyes to become fierce again as he puffed his pipe. "Not _that_ spiel, bloodsucker. Let's hear it."

The vampire-Morse-barely repressed a smile. "Oh, that's what werewolves smell like. I've never met one before. It's an honor to serve under you, Sir."

"_**Enough**_!" Thursday growled, standing immediately. The vampire shrank, curling his shoulders into his slender body. "You're hungry. I can tell you haven't fed in…what? Months? And you _dare_ to come into _my_ territory, threaten _my_ family, the constables, sergeants, and every _human_ within spitting distance? Why? You couldn't terrorize your _own_ town anymore?"

"Sir, if I may," the vampire began meekly. "I'm not here to terrorize anyone, nor is my goal to…feed." He seemed to go slightly paler, and perhaps a little green, at the mention of that. "I decided to come down here to do police work. That's all."

Thursday backed off. The vampire had done the right thing in the face of a werewolf; he was showing a typical submission, one a werewolf might do to another of more experience or age. His eyes were downcast, his body made small, his hands hidden in his trouser pockets. Thursday had never met a vampire who ever showed him that much respect. He wasn't sure he believed what it had said, but he was impressed. "Get to it, then. Off you go." He waved a dismissing hand and walked back to his desk.

The vampire turned to go.

"Wait." Thursday said, seated at his desk. "What do you call yourself?"

"Morse, Sir," said the vampire, blinking in confusion at him.

"Right. Morse." Thursday took a few puffs of his pipe. "If you ever go back on your word, and I find someone dead, with the blood sucked clean out of them, rest assured I will break your bony little neck like glass. Am I clear?"

The vampire swallowed, looking just a little green at the mention of blood. "Yessir."

"Good. Off with you."

The vampire retreated, proverbial tail between its legs.

Thursday sat back in his chair and chewed on the end of his pipe. A vampire in Oxford. The first in over twenty years.

Well. He was due to retire in ten years, anyway. Vampires never stayed in one place for long.


	2. Chapter 2

In Thursday's experience, vampires worked as policemen because they loved blood.

Vampires excel as policemen. They're good at sniffing out whose blood went where, and they're good at finding hidden blood trails. They make good pathologists.

Vampires love blood. That's why Thursday can't suss this vampire.

Morse came out on his own accord. No doubt he hitched a ride somehow, Thursday's not about to bother with the details. But he hasn't taken one look at the corpse, much to Max's dismay. Instead, he looks like he's deliberately trying not to breathe. Well, he is hungry. Thursday can tell the vampire hasn't fed. No bloating anywhere, not even a light filling in of cheekbones, stomach, and thighs. In fact, if anything, he looks worse today than he did yesterday.

Max comes up to him, tutting. "That new DC is in the wrong profession."

"What makes you say that?" Thursday has made a point to keep his colleagues out of the loop about his true nature, just for their own sake. Humans are afraid of anything that even smacks of unusual. He can't blame them. The fewer that know, the better.

"Lad can't stand to look at blood! He's hemophobic!"

Ah. So that would explain why he looked so hungry. Thursday can't help but wonder how the lad's still standing. Vampires denied of blood lose control over their muscles. But no, the lad doesn't look weak, for all he looks as if he's about to keel over. In fact, he seems to be deep in thought, trying to bum a ride from Max, of all people.

Thursday chuckled. In a way, the vampire's prancing around the crime scene, trying to look in-charge and important, reminded him of the way he'd been as a DC, always eager to get in the loop about the latest case.

Hemophobia is new to him. What copper, in their right mind, can't look at blood? And more importantly, how is hemophobia in vampires even possible? They live off blood, in a very literal sense. How is this one still alive?

He strides over to the vampire and claps a hand on his shoulder. "We need to talk."

"Sir, I haven't done anything," Morse says impatiently. The lines in his face are hard, jarring, his brow wrinkled in thought, eyes dull.

"I know. You've been a good lad."

Morse grits his teeth. That's obvious "puppy talk," and vampires hate it.

"Come on, lad. I need a drink, and you could do with one. I'll take you to the station afterwards."

The makes Morse relent, and he follows Thursday to his car, muttering about the case under his breath.

"Drive." Thursday tosses him the keys.

"Why?" Morse asks, making an effort to catch them. Ah, so he's so hungry he's started to lose his natural reflexes. Thursday's never seen a vampire this vulnerable.

"I hate it." Thursday gets in. "Drive to the pub."

When they arrive, Thursday gets out of the car. Morse follows, but as he begins to hand back the keys, Thursday blocks him. "Keep them. It isn't my car, anyhow." With a confused look, Morse pockets the keys and follows him inside.

Thursday chooses a table outside and tells Morse to sit there and wait. He orders two whiskeys and returns with one for the vampire.

When Morse sees it, he sits back. "Sir, I don't drink."

"Admirable. Now get that down you. Christ, it hurts my throat to see you so parched!" Thursday takes a heroic gulp of his own. Morse doubtfully sips at it, then seems interested in the taste and gulps down half of it.

"Now, then. Dr. DeBryn tells me you're homophobic." Thursday begins, lighting his pipe.

Morse sighs. "There's no way to explain without my telling everything…"

"I've got time."

The vampire runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I'm a half-prince. Uh, that's the term for half-blood, now. My mum was human and my father is a vampire."

"Ahhh," Thursday understands why the boy wanted to move house. Two vampires of the same sex in close quarters means a lot of dispute over territory. "The half-blood status allows you to go for long periods of time without feeding. I see."

Morse nods to confirm. "I can't stand the sight of blood. My father…" He looks away, and Thursday gets it. The older a vampire is, the less likely he'll borrow the blood, so to speak. It's likely Morse has seen a lot of dead and bloody bodies over the years.

"Go on."

"My mother introduced me to synthetics before she died." Morse looks ill for a moment. "They aren't…filling, but I get by."

"You're starving," Thursday says with reluctant amazement. "You're in vampire starvation, your body. Aren't you?" He can't help smiling. "Oh, this is brilliant! You're a ruddy _useless_ vampire! That body will never see _an inch_ of fat!"

Morse stares into his whiskey, and Thursday realizes that, as much as he can't stand vampires, the DC is still starving. And it hurts being hungry, he knows. "I'm sorry, lad. That was inappropriate."

Morse shrugs. "But true. I'm practically human. I'm so hungry, I can't track, my reflexes are shite, and transforming gives me a headache. Forget magik."

"Magic?"

"With a 'k'," Morse replies. "Water control. Mist, mostly. I could do it as a child, but trying now makes me faint."

"I've heard of that. The more powerful vampire families have it. So your old man was one of the old families, huh?"

Morse nods. "There's no way to say the name in English, but the translation is roughly 'forbidden eons'. The other two are 'gnarled tree' and 'gray bat'. There's only three left, now. The 'infinite sky' died out about two years ago."

"You don't sound as if you care very much."

"I've always identified strongly with humanity. That's why being hungry doesn't really bother me." The smile seemed empty.

"I saw you holding your breath."

Morse drained the rest of his whiskey and stood. "We should get back to the station. I have work to do."

All in all, Thursday was impressed by Morse's ability to solve crime. His genius far surpassed the human that was meant to be his DS, Jakes.

So Thursday insisted that Morse be his bagman. After all, he needed a partner he could trust.

The full moon was fast approaching.


	3. Chapter 3

Like all werewolves, Thursday didn't always transform on the full moon. In fact, his daughter, Joan, only did it every so often. She was the only child of his to get the gift, and as far as he knew, she only went out when she needed the distraction.

But today, he'd gone without his usual silver chains. His wife, Win, had noticed, and touched his arm. "Fred."

"I've got to, Win." He said bracingly, smiling at her, his hand resting on hers. "My partner needs to know what he's up against."

"Morse, you mean?" Win smiled at the thought of him. "Lovely boy. I don't know why he just waits outside for you. He hasn't come inside once!"

Thursday kissed her. "I'll see you later, pet." He didn't tell Win that Morse was a vampire, unable to enter the house unless invited in specifically. And Thursday wasn't about to invite Morse in. It was too early in their partnership to know what kind of vampire he was.

Morse was good at being hungry around men, but who knew how he'd react around women? Thursday was not about to risk the lives of his wife and daughter.

Even vampires could profit from the full moon, so Morse looked better than he had in days. There was more color to him, and less of that hunger. His eyes shone brighter than ever, and his reflexes seemed much improved. Usually, Thursday observed him trying hard to type quickly. Now, his fingers flew across the paper. Since Thursday had drove himself in today, Morse was already working when his boss arrived.

The vampire looked up as Thursday passed and muttered a quick, polite, "Sir." The DI tipped his hat and sat heavily in his office chair. After about twenty minutes, he could feel (and smell) Morse hovering. Morse smelled like dust and velvet, with more of a scotch smell covering the usual vampire sweet scent. Thursday nodded him in, and Morse entered, standing at parade's rest before his boss. He really _did_ look better, Thursday thought. There was more gloss to his hair, a slight ruddiness to his cheeks.

"You look well," Thursday said, lighting his pipe.

"I've fed a bit," Morse replied, somewhere between proud and cautious. "The full moon helps."

"I've never really understood what it does for vampires."

"The magik gets stronger. Even the younger families feel the power." Morse rocked on his feet and looked at his shoes. "I'm always hungriest on full moons. Sir."

"That just you, is it?" Thursday watched smoke dissipate into the ceiling from between his teeth.

"As far as I know, Sir. Vampires usually feed more regularly-about once a month. Twice, if they're magik users." Morse broke his parade rest and rubbed his neck. Thursday could see his fangs jutting out from his top row of canines.

"How much have you fed, then?" He asked, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Morse blinked and stepped back a little. He seemed afraid to reveal the information.

"Come on, lad. As long as you haven't killed anyone…"

"My death toll stands solid at nil, and I'm proud of it, Sir." Morse straightened up into military pose, back ramrod straight.

"Tell me, then," Thursday coaxed.

Morse deflated like a balloon gradually losing helium. "Enough to keep me going." He rests a hand over the double breast on his jacket, presses inward. It's a hint, and not a willing one. Vampires are masters of self-preservation. If Thursday hadn't all but ordered him…

He's thin. Very thin. If Thursday were to order him to strip, he knows he'd see rib lines on the lad. Morse has been staring at his hand, but he looks up at Thursday and pointedly bites his lip, flashing his fangs. He's fed enough to keep himself on his feet, but not enough to cure the hunger.

Moment past, Morse straightens again, pack to parade rest. A vampire won't show he's starving if he can help it, especially not to a werewolf. It's the full moon, and Thursday gains strength and ferocity as part of his gift. He wouldn't have to try very hard to overpower a vampire as hungry as Morse. A human would be harder to subdue.

Thursday sighs and knocks out the bowl of his pipe into his ashtray. He can't believe he's about to say this to a vampire, but… "Feed."

Morse is visibly startled; his body stiffens. "Sir?"

"I want you fed up, as full as you can get off your synthetics." Thursday shoots him a commanding look, all of the alpha dog in him. "You've shown me your hand, Morse. Tonight, I'm showing you mine."

Morse nods. "I understand, Sir," and leaves to return to his desk. At every turn throughout the day, Thursday catches Morse drinking cuppa after cuppa as he types.

He's lucky only he can smell the synthetics. Well, he and Morse, that is.

..-. ..- .-.. .-.. / - - - -.

Morse smells of synthetics and he looks sated. Thursday wrinkled his nose. "God, I don't know how you stand the stuff. It smells like codliver oil."

Morse smiles sadly. "Small price to pay for not passing out on a victim."

He and Thursday are headed to the holding cells beneath Cowley CID. Thursday knows from experience that the cell door will hold a fully-grown werewolf. He just hopes Morse will be able to handle him. He's gone more wild in small spaces through the years; the war's what did it to him, he thinks. The battlefield's no place for a wolf.

They enter a cell. As instructed, Morse locks it from the inside and pockets the key. It's almost dark, and in the soft light of the evening sun, the young DC looks about as pink as Thursday's ever seen him. He's got a slight bloating on his stomach, just enough to fill out the bones. The DI notices it when he removes his jacket, sitting in shirtsleeves. It's hot down here; brings a new meaning to leaving a crook to "sweat it out."

Thursday removes his jacket and tie. He begins removing his shirt, too, and that makes Morse raise an eyebrow. But the DC doesn't question it, and soon, Thursday is in his underwear. Usually, he'd strip naked, but he doesn't want to scar Morse. These underthings are ratty, anyway. He has Win's permission to tear them to shreds.

As it starts to get dark, Thursday points to his coat. "Slip that on you."

Morse obeys. "Why?"

"It smells like me," Thursday replied. "Think about it. You're a vampire. We're natural enemies."

"You're wild." Morse smiles, his eyes dancing. "Good. I like a challenge."

That confidence is brought on by a full stomach, and Thursday knows it. He just hopes he doesn't tear the young DC to pieces.


	4. Chapter 4

All Morse can think about is that he's never seen a werewolf transform.

He can smell the night air all around them as the sun sets, the cold setting in quickly as its light fades. Morse is glad for the thick winter coat he's borrowed for the scent; he's cold. Blood should warm a vampire to the core. The synthetics don't do much for his chills.

Still, Morse feels better facing this with a full belly. As much as he pretends bravado and flaunts his starvation, most of the time, his body feels heavy, sluggish. Human. It's true he doesn't mind being thought of as human; he identified with his mum most of all in childhood. But no vampire likes having to exert energy to perform simple tasks with natural speed. At least with the synthetics, he feels lighter and less achy. Banked hunger hurts every bone and muscle in the body.

It's been so long since he's been properly full, though. Usually, he only drinks enough to get by. The stuff can turn his stomach if he's not careful; synthetics taste about as bad as they smell. He's learned that tea, coffee, and scotch help, though not much.

Morse is drawn reeling out of his thoughts by a deep growl. Thursday is on all fours, his head bent down. The light of the moon shines in on his back, and as Morse watches, the DI's hair grows long.

It starts on his head, the hair there growing longer in a straight line down his back and two that start from his side burns and travel down, making a long, biblical beard. Hair in the same salt-and-pepper hue shoots out from these points of contact. Thursday is growing larger, the fabric on his body stretching until it tears. Arms and legs elongate, five fingers and toes become large, formidable paws with four claws and a thumb higher up. Morse watches in avid fascination, unable to help backing up until his back is against the door. Thursday growls and gnashes his teeth as his head grows larger, stouter, his nose a snout. The wolf, its long tail now complete, raises its head and howls at the moon. Yellow eyes alight on Morse, half-cowering at the door, and the wolf lunges forward, snarling, its terrible lips bared, revealing thousands of needle-sharp teeth.

Morse braces for impact, his arms stretched out to catch onto the wolf's shoulders. He does so, though it's no small effort holding the wolf back. He pushes hard, fighting the strength of the wolf, his muscles aching. The strength of a half-sated vampire is no match for an old werewolf. Morse ducks a few bites, knowing those jaws are strong enough to break bone. "Sir!" Morse pleas. "Sir, it's Morse!" He's not strong enough to hold the wolf back, so in a last-ditch plan of action, he slides down against the door, underneath the wolf, and at the same time, makes the coat fly up to catch on the wolf's nose.

Morse rolls into a ball and waits. Slowly, the growling dies down. He feels a wet nose prodding at his wrist. The vampire raises his head. The soft, brown eyes of his superior meet his gaze. Thursday sits. Morse uncurls and sits, too. "I thought you were going to kill me," Morse says, breathless.

Thursday snorts, shaking his big head. Morse can't speak dog, but it's clear that means "no."

"What now?" Morse asks. Thursday lies down on his side, his head resting on his paws, still looking at Morse. "Really, Sir? No urge to run?" Morse smirks. Thursday lets out a bark, what might pass for laughter in canines.

"I should've brought my opera," Morse says aloud. Thursday growls. "Everyone's a critic," Morse says with a laugh.

A few minutes pass in lazy silence. Morse is just amazed at the creature before him. Thursday is huge, at least three times the size of a normal wolf. Lying sideways, he is the length of the cell, nose to behind. The tail is curled around the haunches. Morse suspects that wolves go gray like humans do. Thursday would've once been all black, only gaining the gray as he aged.

The stones are cold and the cells are damp. Even in Thursday's coat, and even curled up as he is, Morse begins to shiver, a real chill setting in as the night wears on. Soon, despite his best efforts, his teeth are chattering. He feels a huff of warm breath and glances up. Thursday is motioning to his side. Morse initially shakes his head, but Thursday gives a commanding growl, followed by a deafening bark, and he is forced to obey. At first, he only sits close enough to feel the heat radiating from the wolf, but one brush of Thursday's tail sends him roughly into the warm, soft underbelly. Morse takes the hint and sits with his back resting comfortably against Thursday's belly. The warmth is soothing and surprisingly hot, but Morse isn't complaining. He barely knows what true heat feels like, seeing as he hasn't tasted blood since he was ten. A yawn escapes him and he glances over towards the front of the wolf.

Thursday's head rests placidly on his paws, his eyes closed. The wolf's breaths come slow and deep now. He's sleeping.

Morse shakes his head fondly and lies back as invited. Soon he, too, is fast asleep, enjoying the radiating warmth of the werewolf's soft hide.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday wakes with the dawn. Post-transformation, his human body is always slightly to the left of where the wolf body had been. That leaves Morse resting against the cell's wall instead of against him.

The DI stands, rubbing a hand over his face. He hasn't transformed in a long time. It was nice to let the wolf out again, though he'd been worried about getting wild. Seemed Morse could handle it, though. Thursday had been right to trust him.

He started getting dressed in his clothes from yesterday and checked his watch. It was still early enough that he could run home, have a shower, and be back in time to start the day. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him how much energy it took to be a wolf.

Thursday patted his gut, chuckling softly, and looked over at Morse.

The lad was still sleeping, still wearing Thursday's coat. But…no, that wasn't sleep. It was what was commonly known as "dead-rest." Thursday had seen it with vampires who spent most of their lives entombed away for whatever reason, or the old-fashioned ones who only came out at night and slept in coffins during the day. Morse was hardly breathing, his skin smooth and pale as stone, body eerily still in the way that only a vampire's could be. It made Thursday feel bad for him. In Morse's case, it meant he was too hungry to spare any superfluous energy.

"Poor lad," Thursday mused sadly. But there was nothing he could do. After all, he'd all but told the boy not to feed. And Morse had handled himself so far. Thursday had his family-and all of Oxford-to think about. One starving vampire shouldn't have wormed its way into his heart.

Thursday left the cells and drove home to see Win and have some breakfast. He forgot momentarily about Morse until he came to the station.

Thursday found his coat in his office, draped over the chair. Morse wasn't at his desk, however. He heard a knock at his door and looked up. Jakes was standing before him with a case file. "Sir, you're needed at a crime scene."

-.-. .-. .. - . / ... -.-. . -. .

When Thursday arrived, the first thing he smelled was vampire. The overwhelming sickly-sweet scent was permeating the air. The first thing Thursday thought of was that Morse had gone back on his promise after all. Foolish was the DC to be walking up to him just now. Thursday could observe nothing through his blind rage. Before Morse could even speak, Thursday growled at him-too low for Jakes to hear: "Meet me in the cells when we get back to the station." Morse, looking confused, could only nod.

As Thursday had suspected, the body was drained of blood. He scowled at Morse the whole time. Upon arriving back to the station, he stalked down to the cells where Morse was waiting.

"Sir," Morse began, but Thursday was faster. He shoved Morse roughly against the wall, making the vampire cry out in pain.

"_Damn_ you!" He snarled. "Filthy bloodsucker! I _told_ you what would happen if you killed someone!" He continued to bash Morse against the wall, using his strength and weight to his advantage. Morse barely weighed anything at all.

"Sir!" Morse cried, his hands at Thursday's fists, trying to pry them off. "Sir, please! Listen to me!"

"Why should I trust you?" Thursday went on, hurling Morse against the wall. He was more angry because he'd become to trust the vampire-and become fond of him against his will. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you!" His rage drained out of him when he heard a wheezing intake of breath, and as the red faded, he could observe again.

Morse, still in his coat, was crumpled in the corner where Thursday had thrown him, struggling to get a good breath in, holding his chest. After a few coughs, Morse looked up at him, fear alive in those sweet blue eyes of his. It was Thursday's turn to cower. Morse looked awful, skin so pale and cold it looked vaguely blue, cheekbones stark in his face, lips only roughed by blood-the lad's own. Morse coughed again, blood that he didn't need to lose-and it didn't smell like blood; synthetics-spraying onto the floor.

"I didn't do it," Morse wheezed. "I didn't kill her. I've never killed anyone." His voice was shaky; he was in so much pain that he was crying, likely against his will. "I wouldn't disobey you," he said softly. He tried to get up, but he was too weak to even do that. Thursday stepped forward, but Morse only hid his face, trying to protect himself, and Thursday backed off again. "Leave me alone," the DC sobbed.

"Morse…" Thursday tried to step forward again, but Morse snapped his head up and hissed. It was a threat; his fangs were bared, his eyes were sharp. "Morse." Thursday tried again.

"_Leave_ _me_ _alone_!" Morse hissed. Thursday could do nothing but leave. On the stairway back up to the station, he heard soft sobs coming from the cells.


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday returned from Max's pathology report and found Morse sitting at his desk, looking sick. It seemed he wasn't even trying to pretend he felt fine, but after being tossed about, Thursday couldn't blame him.

Thursday could use Morse's help, but the DC wouldn't meet Thursday's insistent gaze, though he did mutter a quiet "Sir" every so often as Thursday passed. Finally, the DI got up the courage to apologize. He walked up to Morse's desk and said, "My office, if you would, Morse." The DC stood and followed behind him.

Thursday sat at his desk while Morse stood. The lad appeared to be bent slightly-it seemed like it pained him to stand upright. "I'm sorry, lad," the DI began. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that."

Morse's lips tipped upward in a brief smile. "You're forgiven."

"Thank you." Thursday sat back in his chair. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been hit by a train." Morse rubbed at his side absently. "Guess the old stories about super-strong werewolves were right."

"You could always go down to Max, if you were hurting."

Morse snorted. "And how do I explain how thin I am? No thank you! I have a hard enough time passing the physical. Carshall didn't even want to take me on as a PC at first."

Thursday nodded in understanding. "What did you make of our victim?"

"It's vampire, so you were on the mark. Old, I'd say."

"Why?"

Morse smiled. "I could look at the corpse. No visible blood anywhere."

"I see. But what about the young?"

Morse shook his head. "The newly turned don't end it with one body. We would've seen at least two victims."

"What do you make of it, then?" Thursday lit his pipe.

"Old one, probably. They tend to get bored with the whole "human beings" thing after a couple centuries."

"How old do you think?"

Morse shrugged. "It's hard to say. My father's about…" He thought a moment. "A thousand years? It's hard to keep track. Most vampires stop after a while."

"What about a…what did you call it? Half-prince?"

"Even harder to tell. Half-princes don't leave a signature. You wouldn't be able to tell full blood from half in a case like this."

"So what, then?"

Morse made a sudden movement and hissed in pain, grabbing his side. Thursday moved to help, but Morse held up a hand and stood up straight again. After a few breaths during which his brow was furrowed, he spoke again. "Either it's just some cynical vampire, or we've got a killer with an agenda. Unfortunately, there's no way to tell just yet. Jakes was on statements. He'll get them in to you." Morse turned and half-limped back to his desk.

Thursday puffed on his pipe. He was worried. And not just for the safety of Oxford.


	7. Chapter 7

The next murder that turned up was without a doubt not Morse's doing. Same M.O., similar victim. Thursday had to laugh; killers were the same regardless of supernatural abilities.

Morse looked awful, and indeed had all week. He'd passed out behind the wheel, even! When asked, Morse only responded with, "Sorry, Sir." The DI was going to get to the bottom of that, but the murder had distracted him.

On his lunch hour, however, Thursday went to the Bodleian and did some research. He looked through books on vampire starvation and its symptoms. He looked up half-princes and their weaknesses. As he knew, the halves could get away with going hungry longer than a pure vampire, and it made them able to drink synthetics. But, he noted, synthetics were not meant to keep a vampire sated. They were meant to keep a vampire alive. Those were two very different definitions. A vampire denied a feeding would starve to death. And Morse, shaky on his feet, skin a bluish hue, passing out occasionally…well, he fit the bill.

Thursday could not let Morse die. Besides, a sated vampire with the powers of the old families could come in quite handy.

After lunch, Thursday took Morse aside. "I want you to feed, Morse."

The DC looked blearily up at Thursday, not seeming to comprehend. "I…the synthetics…they're making me ill."

Thursday breathed in deep. Even the strongest werewolf feared a vampire's bite. "No, I mean, I want you to feed…from me."

Morse nearly jumped and pulled back from Thursday. "No," he said hoarsely. "I couldn't do that. You know I'm hemophobic."

"I do," Thursday replied, "but I also happen to know you're starving to death." The DC's shoulders hunched. "You know it too, don't you?"

Morse nodded. "I was never very strong, but this…" He lifted his hands, and Thursday noticed they were shaking. "I can barely carry several books at one time, and…" He seemed to hug himself, going smaller. "Vampires heal fast. I haven't healed." He chuckled. "I'm dying. Is it wrong to be frightened?"

Thursday rested a hand on the vampire's slim shoulder and Morse looked up, his eyes wet with tears waiting to fall. "No, lad. But you should know that I'm not letting my bagman die on my watch." Morse smiled shakily. "Meet me in the cells after everyone's gone home. You're going to be okay, lad."

...- .- - .-. .. .-. . / ..-. . . -.. .. -. -.

After the station was closed up, Morse and Thursday went down to the cells. It was cold and dark and damp down here, lonely. Only spiders and bats to keep a prisoner company.

Morse stood at a distance while Thursday loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. "Do you know how much you can safely take?"

Morse nodded. "Two pints. I'll be able to tell," he added, sensing Thursday's question.

"Good. I'd like to be alive to go home to my family tonight." The DI smiled, but in reality, he was afraid. No sane man willingly submitted himself to a vampire's jaws.

"Sir," Morse said respectfully, "we don't have to do this."

"Yes we do," Thursday replied. "I need you alive. No one else knows vampire like you do, and you're a good copper besides." He slipped his coat and jacket off and braced himself against the wall. "Is that enough room for you to bite?"

Morse walked slowly forward, more trying to keep his balance than trepidation. "Yes, I think so. I haven't fed in ages, but from what I heard, you never forget." He wet his lips, and Thursday saw two fangs as the DC parted his lips and sniffed.

"Do I smell good?" Thursday asked cautiously. That was often a draw for vampires, he knew.

Morse chuckled. "Like a dog." Thursday smiled. The DC came forward until his body was flush against Thursday's, and the DI belatedly realized how intimate this was. "Relax, Sir," Morse purred, and then he felt it: the calm, warm, relaxing feeling vampires so often exuded before a feed. He'd experienced it before in the war, though he'd never before been a vampire's prey. He felt Morse breathing against his neck, and then there it was. The pinch.

- - .-. ... .

Morse closed his eyes as the blood filled his mouth, gushing out of the wound in his superior's neck. He would've been sickened if it didn't taste so…_perfect_. He sighed softly and began to drink, going slowly to savor the taste.

Thursday had an interesting taste. Despite smelling like a dog, he tasted of whiskey and pipe smoke. It wasn't an unappetizing flavor. As Morse drank, he could feel his body warming, pinking, filling out. It felt good to drink something so warm, so tasty, so filling, after so long without. His taste buds rejoiced.

As the second pint began, Morse began to feel a tingling sensation in his dominant hand. The magik, long dormant, was now rising to the surface. He would've smiled if he could have. The feel of the magik washed over him, like the warmth of power he felt on a full moon, but oh so much more potent.

He slowed his drinking as he felt the skin around the wound pruning. He hadn't taken enough to hurt the werewolf, but he had certainly taken what he needed to feel better.

Morse stepped back from Thursday with a grateful smile. His whole body felt warm, and for the first time in years, he felt truly alive. Better yet, he felt…powerful. Morse couldn't help feeling his cheeks and stomach, finding them both lacking bone. Of course, his cheekbones were still visible, and he was still thin, but no ribs showed. Morse closed his eyes and stretched out his hands. He could feel his body healing the wounds he'd received from Thursday's beating, the blood circulating through his veins. He straightened and looked at Thursday.

His superior looked pale and shaken, but not ill. "Thank you, Sir," Morse said, meaning it. He never would've thought a werewolf would want to keep him alive so badly that he would take it upon himself to feed him. "I'll drive you home."

Thursday nodded and pushed himself off the wall. He looked a little dizzy, so Morse helped him up the stairs. It was good to feel strong again.

After Morse dropped Thursday off, he drove home. After parking the jaguar, he stood in the soft golden lamplight outside his flat and, placing his hands at his sides, tried his first bit of magic in twenty years.

Beautiful mist swirled out of thin air, surrounding his person in a smoky, damp cocoon. Morse smiled, letting the mist tickle his cheeks. He'd missed this, the easy magik that came from within, the subtle tingling in his hands as he worked, and the warm feel of the spell as it ran throughout him.

Tired from a long day, Morse yawned, dispelling the mist before anyone saw. He went up to his flat and fell asleep listening to his favorite record, full at long last.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The bells of Oxford woke Morse up early. The young half-vampire rolled over onto his back, in no hurry to get out of bed. Usually, he would rush off to work, but not this time.

His hand slid down his chest and rested over his slim stomach. He was full, yet, because of his years of starvation, he was still thin. It would take years for him to build up fat stores, and Morse didn't have time to find that many willing victims. After all, he was a gentleman. He would never take blood without permission.

Still, the fullness of his stomach-with real blood, no less-made him smile. It was so much better to wake up warm and sated than cold and empty, though he had to admit it made him a bit lazy.

After another moment of rest, Morse swung his legs out of bed and started his morning routine. He'd told his superior to eat well and drink tea with plenty of sugar to stave off bad after-effects of the feeding. After all, two pints was a lot to take from someone, and, as he predicted, a werewolf was less likely to take kindly to the procedure. But vampires were not like snakes. No venom would be present during a feeding. He expected the other man knew what would happen and was prepared for it.

When Morse arrived at the Thursday household, he was surprised to find that Sir was not waiting for him as usual. He was just starting to get out of the car when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Joan, his boss's youngest. Thursday had been very careful to keep his daughter far away from Morse, but it seemed today, she'd beaten him to the punch.

"So _you're_ the vampire that bit dad!" She growled, rushing out of the house at full speed. Even without her wolf form, when she collided with him, it felt like getting hit by a train. Sated, he was better equipped to hold her back, but it was still a struggle.

"Joan!" Thursday's voice rang out over the misty Oxford morning. "That's enough. Get inside."

"But dad…"

"Now."

Joan turned and, sulking, walked back into the house. Morse couldn't help chuckling at the submissive behavior; vampires never fail to find the werewolf hierarchy amusing, but straightened when Thursday looked at him.

"You'd better come inside, lad." He said gently.

Morse obliged, reflecting on the fact that despite the lore used to frighten young vampires, no ill effects come from a vampire entering a dwelling without permission from the owner. Most vampires, however, prefer to avoid it. Morse's father seemed to think that manners separated them from the dogs, but the young detective had other ideas. In his mind, it stemmed from a long history of gentlemanly behavior and the natural suavity found in vampire kind.

Bottom line, a vampire makes a very poor petty thief.

As Morse enters the house, the overwhelming scents of human and werewolf mix together so strongly that trying to tell one from the other makes his head spin. He catches a whiff of Joan, which he recognizes from outside. She smells like Thursday, the same base scent making up her being, with more of the strong smell of young dog , with something that smells like it would taste good sprayed overtop. Perfume, most likely. Morse almost wets his lips; he's got to be careful now that he's tasted Thursday blood. He never could resist finding the sweet, soft necks of females tasty.

Sam and Win Thursday are harder to pick out in a crowd of scents. As Morse follows his superior into the dining room, it's clear that he is not welcome. He is used to getting a smile from Win; it unsettles him to see her so stoic.

"I had to tell them," Thursday says regretfully. He sounds tired, and Morse notices how pale he looks. He probably hasn't eaten enough; Morse resolves to make him a sugary tea once they get to the station.

"Why?" Joan spits. "Why would you stick your neck out for a filthy _bloodsucker_?" Her eyes flare gold as she looks at her father, and Morse can see the same fierceness has been passed from father to daughter. And that is not all wolf.

"He was starving." Thursday replies. It sounds rehearsed, but Morse can't blame him for that. "I didn't see a vampire. I saw one of my men about to die. I wasn't about to let that happen. Morse is a good man and a decent copper besides. I'll see to it he makes it all the way to DI."

The family is silent, and Thursday sits heavily, tearing a slice of bread from the plate on the table ravenously. Every eye in the room is on Morse, standing silently by the door.

Morse takes a deep breath. Being half-human, he breathes, but not quite as much as a full human. However, he makes the effort to do so, to show solidarity, as he has had to do in the past. "Knowing someone you trusted is a vampire is not easy," he begins, choosing his words carefully. "And believing a vampire is different from the norm is hard. So I will not make you false promises. I will only say this: Sir is my boss, and I will not let him come to harm. On that, you have my word of honor." With that promise, he sees the pressure dissipate visibly. Win is smiling at him again, and he gives a small smile back.

Thursday stands with a grunt. Morse looks away as he kisses his wife goodbye and banters playfully with his children.

Morse is relieved to be outside, where the overbearing smells of the Thursday clan are better dispersed in the thick, frosty air of a typical Oxford morning. He starts up the car again and relaxes in the driver's seat. Thursday sits beside him, and he drives off.

"Sir," Morse says after a moment, "do you feel all right?"

Thursday sighs. "Lightheaded still. And weak. Watch me do _you_ a favor again, Morse."

The vampire smiles. "I'll make you a sugary cuppa when we get to the station. You aren't poisoned, at least."

"Good to know." Thursday replies with a huff. "They tell you all kinds of things as a pup. That the teeth burn. That a vampire's power over you is absolute when they have your blood. That the creatures themselves are slimy like frogs."

"Any of it true?" Morse jokes.

"Not as yet," Thursday laughs. "But then, you're a mutt, aren't ya?"

Morse rolls his shoulders. "Well, the stories about werewolves ring true."

"Oh, do they, now?"

"Strong as trains. Stronger than that, if in true form. Teeth to break bone. Fierce when wild."

"Those all sound like compliments."

Morse snorts. "I'll take sleek and lean before taking any of that dog business."

"Hey, I'm still your superior, and I can still cuff you bout the ears if I want."

"Yes, sir."


End file.
